


And Arthur Makes Three

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Families of Choice, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, Eames, and the accidental family</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Arthur Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this Tumblr post](http://josimbala.tumblr.com/post/85233114466/princess-joseph-redxluna-i-was-trying-to). Blame my ridiculous love of Arthur and Eames with a baby. (Also: thanks to kansouame for helping name her.)

“Well, we can’t very well call the police,” Eames says at last, casting a pointed look around the warehouse, which - although mostly empty at the end of a successful job - currently looks like one part serial killer’s hide-away and one part meth lab.

Arthur says, “You’re kidding. What exactly are you planning to do with it, then?”

Under their combined scrutiny, the baby gurgles, kicks its legs against the blanket. It’s fat, pink and diapered, seemingly unharmed, a few weeks old at most, and Arthur immediately wants to know where it came from, so he can send it back.

Eames leans down and scoops the baby off the concrete floor with a reckless abandon that makes Arthur’s chest tight, nestling it easily into the crook of one arm. The panic must show on Arthur’s face, because Eames looks at him and laughs. “For pity’s sake, it’s a baby, not a bomb, darling.” He does some sort of swaying motion with his hips, offering the baby a finger from his free hand to clutch at, which goes immediately into its mouth. “Hungry, are we, sweetheart?”

Arthur experiences a sudden, sinking feeling. “No. Eames, no. You can’t keep it.”

Eames, for his part, actually manages to look innocent, mostly riding on the baby’s coattails. “Just until I locate the mother. Or a reasonable substitute. Have you ever _seen_ the inside of an orphanage?”

“You’re a lunatic,” Arthur tells him, “and you’re going to get arrested for kidnapping.” But, whatever. It’s none of his business how what Eames wants to do with his life when they’re not working.

That night, in bed in his hotel room, Arthur watches local news for reports about a missing baby. There are none. Shortly after two in the morning, he checks local police records from his computer, too, and still comes up empty. 

It’s sad, to think of something so small, so forgotten.

***

Arthur has three days to kill before he heads to Berlin for his next job. He likes to keep busy, since - with Cobb in official retirement - his life gets boring pretty quickly. He doesn’t do well with boredom; that’s how he ended up in dreamshare in the first place. 

There are plenty of historic sites in Kiev to keep Arthur busy, but because the universe hates him, he finds himself tripping around the same six blocks that surround the neighbourhood where he knows Eames has rented an apartment. He finally breaks down right around noon, grabs lunch for two from a local shop, and finds himself knocking on Eames’ door fifteen minutes later.

Eames answers the door in a ratty T-shirt and sweats, which is as unmade as Arthur has ever seen him; there’s something that’s probably baby spit-up on his shoulder, and he looks like he could use a good night’s sleep.

“Arthur,” he drawls, leaning on the doorframe. “What a pleasant surprise. And you brought lunch! Come in.”

The apartment is one very small room - Eames’ luggage and clothing dominates most of the available floor space; but there’s also a bed, a dresser, a kitchenette, and a baby, sleeping in a nest of towels inside a dresser drawer.

“Eames!” Arthur yelps, but is immediately shushed by frantic hand-waving. “What are you _doing_?”

“I didn’t exactly have time to procure a cradle now, did I?” Eames whisks the takeout from Arthur’s hands to the small dining table. He did, however, have time to procure a package of disposable diapers and a can of formula, by the looks of it. “Anyway, she’s fine. Snug as a bug. And I just got her sleeping, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wake her.”

Eames makes a pot of tea, Arthur finds some tarnished silverware in one of the drawers. They eat mostly in silence. When the baby makes a soft, hiccoughing noise in her sleep, they both freeze - forks hovering above plates, mouths half-open - and when she settles again, Eames says, “She’s really a sweet little thing. Can’t imagine why anyone would just throw her away.”

Arthur gets that sinking feeling again. “You _can’t_ keep her, Eames.”

Eames pushes his plate away. “It’s not as if her mother slipped out to have a fag and left her unattended, Arthur. Let’s be realistic.”

“You’re a criminal. You’re wanted in twelve countries!”

“Eleven,” Eames corrects. “And only two of those are by my real name.”

Arthur can feel the whole thing unravelling a mile a minute. “Listen - I’ll stay. I have a lot of local contacts. I can help you find her a good home.”

Eames doesn’t get a chance to say anything to that immediately, because the baby choses exactly that moment to wake, with an ear-piercing shriek. Eames gets up from the table and goes to her instead, easily whisking her into his arms, bouncing her lightly before turning to the apartment’s tiny fridge, where bottles of pre-made formula are lined up along with beer. Arthur watches him go through the ritual of bottle preparation like he’s done it a hundred times. 

Once he’s got the baby eating, he turns to Arthur and says, “Well, if you’re going to stay and help, you can start by watching her while I go out to the shops. There are some things she’s going to need.”

Eames moves towards him with the baby, and Arthur - well - he panics. “Like what? I can go get it.”

Eames’ stoic expression resolves into something more familiar to Arthur - relaxed and slightly amused. “You don’t have any siblings, do you, Arthur?”

“No,” Arthur says, though he hardly sees what that has to do with anything.

“More’s the pity,” Eames sighs. “She isn’t going to bite, you know - just hold your arms like this -”

“I’ve held babies before, Eames.” Philippa, and later, James. They had both fussed and cried in his arms, no matter what he did; and Mal had laughed at him.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” Eames ducks in and passes the baby to Arthur so quickly that he doesn’t even have time to argue. She starts fussing almost immediately, but gives up when Eames passes Arthur the bottle. As long as she’s eating, it seems, one set of arms is as good as another.

***

No one questions Arthur when he starts calling in favours. Sure, a few rumours probably start flying through the dreamshare community, but anyone who knows Arthur knows to keep those rumours confined to places he’s not going to hear them.

Arthur ignores his train ticket, and instead of extending his hotel stay, rents a two bedroom apartment in a much nicer part of the city, which he, Eames, and the baby can share. Since Eames wants help taking care of her, it only makes sense that Arthur be there as much as he can; though Eames does most of the actual baby care, if Arthur’s honest.

About a week into the mess, while Arthur is still strenuously ignoring the adoring looks Eames gets, every time he takes the baby out in the stroller he bought, he starts noticing a pattern to the increasingly elaborate nicknames Eames is giving her.

_Baby_ has become _B.B._ has become _Bumble Bee_ and then _Itty Bitty Bitsy Baby_ ; on and on, but with increasing frequency of the letter B.

When Eames finally gets her down for the night, Arthur shuts his laptop, leaves it on the table, and sits across from Eames on the spongy couch.

“Have you _named_ her?” He asks. That’s serious; the point of no return.

Eames looks coy. “Beatrice was my Nan’s name, that’s all. It was just a thought.”

“Eames…”

Eames gets up, and goes to bed. Arthur gets up and goes back to his computer.

***

The baby is crying.

Arthur staggers out of his chair, trying to force the kink out of his neck as he stumbles down the darkened hallway. He’s has his hand on the knob of the cracked open door before he remembers he doesn’t have to be there, realizes the baby isn’t crying anymore. Through the crack in the door, he can see the back of Eames’ shoulders on a lap from the crib to the window, and the top of the baby’s head against his shoulder. He’s singing “Hush, Little Baby,” in a dry, sleepy rasp.

Arthur lets go of the doorknob and keeps walking, into his own bedroom, shuts the door and lies down with his clothes still on.

He knows some things about Eames, about his past; things that he’s probably not supposed to know, and that Eames would certainly never talk about, willingly, with someone who is - for all the teasing, for all the times they’ve saved each other’s lives inside and outside the scope of other people’s dreams - equal parts stranger and competition. But, however Arthur came across the information, the fact remains that he knows some, though not all, of the reasons that Eames is good at pretending.

He also knows that Eames probably has a weak spot for the things that other people leave behind.

And Arthur, well, he may or may not have a weak spot for Eames.

***

“You know, we’ll attract a lot less attention if there are _two_ people listed on the adoption papers. A single bloke and a little baby girl - that’s a bit odd.”

The baby lets out a loud belch, and spits up on Arthur’s shoulder. Luckily, she hits the rag this time. “Don’t try and drag me into your mess,” he grumbles, wiping the baby’s chin.

“Oh darling,” Eames grins, shamelessly as the baby coos and wiggles her little fingers against Arthur’s chin. “You are already in it. Shall I sign for you?”

He does, perfectly replicating Arthur’s signature with terrifying precision.

“All done, Bitsy Bob!” he announces, scooping the baby from Arthur’s arms triumphantly. “You’re legal.”

“It’s not legal if the paperwork is forged,” Arthur sighs, but Eames just laughs, and the baby coos, like she’s the happiest creature in the world.

***

“She is gorgeous,” the lady across the aisle declares as Arthur adjusts the baby’s knitted hat, trying to keep her calm while Eames is out of sight so that she doesn’t disturb everyone on the airplane. “What’s her name?”

“Ah - Beatrice.” It trips off Arthur’s tongue at first, though - saying it aloud - he realizes it really does suit her.

“Beatrice,” the woman smiles. “How lovely. People are so into these flashy names nowadays - but there’s something so wonderful about an old-fashioned family name, isn’t there?”

Arthur nods, “Oh, definitely.”

“And might I say, you and your partner - well, I can tell you’re going to be a very happy family.”

The best Arthur can manage in response is, “Uh - I - We -” before Eames comes back from the bathroom, and interrupts them by trying to navigate the narrow space between the seats.

“I can take her back now,” he offers, holding out his hands, but Beatrice has settled at last, her head against Arthur’s chest, so there’s really no reason to disturb her.

“It’s alright,” Arthur says. “I’ve got her.”

***

Standing in front of the baggage carousel, Arthur starts to get that sinking feeling again.

“I guess I won’t be contacting you for jobs for a while, then.”

“Not unless I can find a qualified sitter,” Eames agrees, without looking away from the carousel. “Yusuf is terrible with children, so he’s not an option.”

Beatrice is fussing in her stroller, whimpering and beating her little fists on anything in reach. Arthur wants to pick her up, to do something to settle her, but he forces himself not to.

“Well,” he says at last, watching his bag come around the turn in the conveyer like a man watching the rifles come up on a firing squad. “Let me know if you get bored.”

Halfway across the terminal, he thinks he hears Beatrice start to cry; but really, that could be anyone’s baby.

***

Arthur has a job lined up in New York within two days.

Ninety minutes before his flight, he’s standing in Heathrow for the second time in a week, and there’s a woman in the line ahead of him trying to convince her baby to stop crying. She looks frazzled, completely exhausted, and the baby is slowing no signs of slowing down. Arthur tells himself that he’s just being a good point-man when he moves in to help.

“Can I?” he says, and the woman just nods, too overwhelmed to do anything else. Arthur scoops the baby into the modified rugby carry that Beatrice favours - it looks dangerous, but it’s perfectly safe, and something about it always puts her at ease - does a little bounce and wiggle motion (Eames is much better at it, but he manages) and it only takes a few minutes before the baby has gone from ear-piercing shrieks to soft, still vaguely discontented burbles. When Arthur hands him back to his mother, those disappear entirely, too.

“God,” the mother laughs, “thank you. We’ve been travelling for eighteen hours, and he’s just had enough.”

“I know the feeling,” Arthur nods sympathetically. “I do a lot of travelling.”

“It must be hard,” she says, gently bouncing the baby, “to be away from yours.”

Arthur doesn’t even hesitate before he says, “It is. Actually, I’m thinking of changing jobs.”

***

Arthur taps his foot on the doormat, shifting restlessly. At one point, he moves too far to the side, and almost knocks his suitcase over, but manages to grab it, just in time, before it thuds against the hallway floor.

He’s just thinking of raising his hand to knock again, caught in that treacherous moment between determination and cowardice, when the bolt clicks back, the knob turns, the door opens, and there’s Eames, in a loose button-down and tattered jeans, with Beatrice tucked in the crook of one arm.

For his part, he doesn’t look the least bit surprised.

“Look, Bitsy - Arthur’s home,” he says, passing her into Arthur’s arms, and Arthur lifts her up like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

-End-


End file.
